Angelface
by Anticipating Boxes
Summary: Now that they have his fingerprints, the FBI have begun to piece together a mostly fictional account of what must have happened. AU, slash and serial killers. Kidnapping. Brainwashing.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer**: I don't own anything you recognise, and I get nothing out of writing this stuff but personal satisfaction.

**Notes**: This particular fic was originally concieved as a oneshot set in one of those semi-popular serial killer AUs. I wrote the first part in the span of a week and sent it off to my most valued confidant, who then informed me that I had to continue writing it. Or else. This is the result of that "or else", and also bribery with lollipops.

**Things you should know**:

-There are four parts to this story, and a sequel coming after.

-Don't be decieved, this is _not_ an all-human AU.

-There will be boy-on-boy 'romance' (but no wincest), so consider yourselves warned.

-This story will contain non-graphic sex, semi-graphic violence, and mature themes.

* * *

[**Approximately three years ago**]

They're hiding out in a nothing little suburban village. It's nameless, faceless, just like a thousand other pretty suburban wastelands across the country. To someone else it might have been home, or even just a nice place to stop for a visit. To the brothers Winchester, it was just another hole to hide in and lie low for a while, another quiet stop before the lack of blood and screaming became too much and it was tempting to summon a batch of demons just so they had something to kill that would put up a decent fight.

It has only been two days when Dean sees him. He's been cruising the business district on foot, car parked by a metre stuffed full of hours worth of change, breezing through shops and past commercial businesses. A habit, or hobby, whenever they're in a place actually big enough to have a business district.

He's stopped, waiting for a red light to change, when he sees the man across the street. An ordinary man, in an ordinary suit, talking on an ordinary cell phone with a slight frown on his face. Dean steps back and leans against the side of a building as he watches the man, sees a flash of sunlight catch his hair as he moves - it gives him the momentary illusion of a halo while fuck-me lips form plain, ordinary words on a mouth better suited to moaning. Dean Winchester's eyes flash dark with sudden want and he pushes away from the wall to follow the man to his place of work. An ordinary office building with a coffee shop on the ground floor to service the needs of the middle-class workaholics.

Dean takes a seat at the little cafe and orders a coffee, tipping heavily for his prolonged presence so the staff don't complain when he takes up the small table for hours on end. He watches the entrance to the building like the expert stalker that he is, always from the corner of his eye as he people-watches or flirts with the waitresses. Four hours later, at five thirty in the afternoon, the man emerges from the building again. Dean leaves only moments after, pinning a few crumpled bills under the salt and pepper shakers before he begins to dog the man's steps to a plain, boring car.

Then Dean follows him home in a stolen camaro, tailing him with the expert ease of someone who has done this sort of thing a thousand times before.

What he sees of the man's home is normal and boring. Boring wife, boring house, boring yard, boring kid. He thinks about the sunlight-halo and the fuck-me lips, his mouth twisting into a grim smirk before he peels off in the stolen car, street name and number perfectly memorised. Dean dumps the car, exchanging it for his own black beauty. He parks the car in the lot of the local tourist's motel and jogs across the concrete to the room he's sharing with his brother.

When he sees Sam, he gives his brother the address and says only four words. "Sam. I want him."

* * *

[**Now**]

The man has no identification on him that isn't fake. His fingerprints don t match any in the national database. He refuses to give his real name. But none of this means that he's in the slightest bit innocent. The man's face is cold, like he really doesn't care that he'd been caught, or that he'd sliced a man's stomach open with a hunting knife during his arrest. Everyone knows Dean Winchester is a psycho, but this guy doesn't even seem to be that. And since he isn't Sam Winchester - Dean's only known accomplice - they're not quite sure what to say on the report they quickly send off to the FBI.

Both men are handcuffed and led to holding cells, separated and put as far away from one another as possible. It's not possible to get them far enough apart that they can't talk, but separating them still seems like a logical precaution to take.

The entire area is locked down while the cops sit down and wait for the FBI. They don't think it will take long for an armoured vehicle and heavily armed agents to arrive, what with the poster child for the modern serial killer sitting in their holding cells. They arrange a shift of guards just in case, and the guy unlucky enough to pull the short straw takes a shotgun and positions himself squarely in front of the only way to get in or out of the cells. From his position he can see them both, leaning against the front bars of their cells and angled so they can see one another.

Dean is still smiling, casual like he's at some kind of retreat and not locked up, handcuffs uncomfortably tight against his wrists. "You ok there, Cas?" Dean asks, a veteran of short stays in the system's worst answer to a hotel.

"I have been better," the other man replies, voice eerily calm. He sounds as if he's commenting on the weather, and something about that makes the guard nervous.

"Sam will come," Dean says with a grin. "We'll kill every single bleeder in the building and ride into the hazy fucking morning. I know you'd like that."

The response is a soft moan. The guard tries not to look as unsettled as he feels, suddenly very glad that his shift will be over in just a few short hours.

* * *

[**Past**]

The brothers stalked Dean's new obsession together, tag teaming and keeping each other company by turns as they mapped his routine. They watched him from the moment he left his house to the moment he returned and sometimes after that. Office, gym, church, mid-week trips to the supermarket and leaving the office early to pick his daughter up from school twice a week. They waited almost an entire month before making any move.

The man never used the company car park. The brothers parked their car in an empty spot close to the building and intercepted the man on his way out of the office. It was a short struggle, one man who worked out to keep in shape against two violent felons who worked hard for speed and agility. They had him dazed and tied up before he even knew what was happening, a hard ball gag shoved into his mouth to make sure he couldn't scream.

Dean flirted even as they carted the man out to the parking lot, invisible at three in the afternoon when the boss made his rounds and nobody looked out the windows, talking about the man's pretty mouth and beautiful eyes.

Shocked, horrified eyes. Round and beautiful eyes that stared in disbelief as the Winchesters tucked him into the back of the car, jack-knifing his body to make him fit. Doors slammed, the engine revved, and Dean leaned over the back of the front seat to kiss the gag in their captive's mouth. "I'm going to make you beg for it, angelface," Dean crooned in a dark, heated voice that was unsettling as it was sensual. "You'll beg, and if you're really good I might just keep you."

"Jesus, Dean," Sam rolled his eyes from the driver's seat as they sped far and fast from the scene of the crime. "You sound like a lovesick puppy."

"You jealous, Sammy?" Dean asked, giving the bound and gagged man in the backseat one last look before turning around and sitting down on the seat how it was intended to be sat on. "You sound jealous."

"You sound like a fucking liar."

"You'll always be my first, Sammy," Dean replied, eyes glinting like knives as he smiled at his brother. "My partner."

"Don't you forget it, Dean."

"Not a chance, baby boy."

In the back seat, Jimmy Novak closed his eyes and prayed to a God who never answered, desperately clinging to whatever hope he could find.

-

* * *

  
[**Now**]

The power cuts out just after midnight. The two captives stand patiently by their cell doors as guns go off and people shout for help, for backup, and finally for God. The door that hides the holding cells from the rest of the building crashes open. A head sails through the air to land with an oddly squelchy thump in front of Dean's cell.

Sam enters then, covered in blood, eyes glinting yellow in the darkness. He tosses Cas a straight razor and Dean a set of keys. "You owe me," he says as the cell doors click open.

"Yeah, yeah. I'll be the one saving your ass next time," Dean says, kicking the severed head out of his way and dropping the now-open handcuffs on the floor.

"Would you like repayment in sexual favours or in blood?" Cas asks, blunt and direct, blue eyes letting nothing through.

Sam shakes his head and laughs as the blue-eyed man emerges from his cell. He throws one long arm around Dean's shoulders and kisses his brother's cheek. "Did I ever tell you what good taste you have?" he asks, watching Cas slip the handcuffs from his wrists and flick open the straight razor with a contemplative look on his otherwise expressionless face.

"Fuck," Dean grins back, looking up at his baby brother. "I never tire of hearing it."

"You promised sunrise," Cas reminds him, reaching out to caress Dean's cheek with the flat of his blade. "Is everyone dead?"

"Every single God Damned soul in the building," Dean replies, knowing full well exactly how his brother works. It's like a part of his own mind. He doesn't even have to look at Sam's self-satisfied smirk to know that it's true.

-

* * *

  
[**Past**]

The first torture is sensory deprivation. He knows it's the first because Dean tells him, whispers it into his ear as the needle pushes into his skin and liquid nihilism is injected into his veins. The blue eyed captive lolls, boneless and barely awake as the brothers strip him of his clothing and wrap him in hard, thick latex.

A distant, still aware part of his mind wants him to scream when they take out the gag, wants his body to struggle and thrash. But willpower is nothing against the drug, so Jimmy finds himself helpless, only his eyes telegraphing his fear as he's zipped into the suit and the mask is placed over his head. It muffles his hearing, drowning out the brothers' talk and turning it into meaningless buzz. His eyesight is the last thing to be robbed of him as the long slit in the mask is zipped closed.

He can vaguely feel it as he's carried to what he can only assume is a bed, his arms tied to the headboard and his ankles strapped to the footboard. He can't feel any softness beneath him through the thick layer of latex against his skin. He can barely feel anything and it stretches on for indeterminable hours.

Jimmy prays, moving his lips silently behind the mask, rubbing them raw against the seams and the other zip at the front of the mask. He closes his eyes tight against the darkness, asking for salvation until his body starts shaking, his face becoming damp under the mask as tears squeeze from his eyes. He thinks about his family, doesn't know if they're still alive, and cries until there are no tears left and he's exhausted enough to fall into a fitful sleep.

When he wakes up he doesn't know what time it is, but the zip above his mouth has been opened. They must have been watching for a change in his breathing because the very next second he feels something cold against his bottom lip.

A muffled voice speaks up right by his ear. It takes Jimmy a moment or two to translate the sounds into words and when he does he's suspicious and relieved at the same time. "It's just water," the voice says. "Drink it or drown in it."

The cold rim of the cup shifts, pouring a trickle of water into his mouth. Jimmy gulps it down, trying not to choke on the steady stream of liquid. It tastes like it's just come out of the tap, but at this point he doesn't care, it's refreshing and one small sign of mercy. The water stops and Jimmy coughs on the last few drops, turning his head to the side. "Wh-what -" he starts in a croak, but the rest of his sentence is muffled by the zip closing again. He lets the question die and falls into silence.

By the time the zip is opened again Jimmy feels delirious. He's been watching colours swirl past his eyes for what feels like hours, catching phantom sounds that make his head whip around. Then suddenly cool air hits his lips again and the cup is back, tipping water into his mouth that he gulps down, only just realising how thirsty he is.

The zip is shut again before he can plead for more.

The urge hits him soon after and Jimmy squirms in the suit, squeezing his eyes shut tight as the uncomfortable feeling forces him away from the colours and back to reality. He holds out for hours - not even knowing that hours have passed - before he can't take it anymore and sobs behind the mask as the vestiges of dignity are taken from him.

He must have blacked out again because the next thing he knows, he's being efficiently stripped of the suit and shoved into a shower stall. Light hits his eyes for the first time in what feels like days and he's blinded by the sudden brightness and the hard spray of cold water that splashes over his body.

Jimmy shivers in the sudden cold, his body on fire and certain that it s burning. The sounds around him are too loud and he cringes in the shower stall, his limbs aching with the tingle of pins and needles. Large shapes loom in his blurry vision and Jimmy tries to plead, to reason.

"Shh," the voice is soothing, the kind of voice you'd use on small, scared animals or especially shy children. "Don't tire yourself out, angelface."

Ice cold and wet, Jimmy finds himself being pulled out of the shower stall, huge hands holding him down as slightly smaller hands begin wrapping him in the latex suit again. Jimmy starts to struggle. His head snaps back and suddenly he's looking into inhumanly yellow eyes. His struggles falter, like weights have been placed all over his body and he can't explain why it s suddenly so hard to breathe, let alone move.

The inside of the suit is wet and smells like pine. Jimmy's eyes roll back in despair and he passes out again as the mask is put back over his head. He dreams about being chased through pine forests by yellow eyed monsters and wakes up with the visions still dancing in front of his eyes.

He soon figures out the routine. Hours of nothing, cold water, more hours of nothing, a bite or two of unsweetened oatmeal suddenly added into the mix, more hours of nothing, another drink, and the longest period of silence which must be night. Sometimes he can swear he hears them moving around, hears them talking in low voices or feels the bed he's strapped to dip slightly with weight on one side. They strip him down for long cold showers every two days after letting him stew in filth and each time Jimmy finds himself in the shower stall it gets harder and harder to voice pleas for mercy. Every day he finds it harder to pray.

After what he figures has been about two weeks the routine suddenly changes when he wakes up to find himself sitting upright and sick as the world moves around him. He nearly throws up, but finds that there's nothing in his stomach to throw up. He only feels the burn of bile in the back of his throat before he swallows it back down.

Please, God... he thinks, then stops. He leaves the prayer unfinished, unable to find any more words. Jimmy's head drops down, his chin almost touching his chest. He doesn't fight when the car stops and he's carried somewhere new. He doesn't move as he's strapped upright into a chair except to let his head loll to the side as he stares at the colours, too tired to try and hold on to what life was like when he could still move and think and feel.

-

* * *

He's still upright in the chair when the zip over his eyes is opened. Jimmy can't talk, can't make a sound that isn't muffled and silenced by the latex over his mouth, but suddenly he can see and he has to squint his eyes against the light. It takes him a moment to register what he's looking at. A pair of green eyes looking into his, sharp and alert as they assess whether Jimmy is awake and aware. They must find what they're looking for because the eyes pull back and Jimmy sees first the deceptively handsome face of one of his captors, and then the room that he's sitting in. Pale colours, classic and classy. Probably a hotel. He spares a thought to wonder how they got him in, how they would have explained away his attire and unconscious state.

Then he sees the taller of the brothers leading a giddy, giggling young woman towards the freshly made bed and frowns. He doesn't get what's going on until they start stripping, clothes tossed carelessly away from the bed. The girl's lace panties land inches from Jimmy's feet and he wonders what the hell she must be thinking, wonders why she doesn't see this as sick. He sees the words form on the tall man's lips, doesn't realise their significance until the girl looks right at him and pouts her lips into a kissy face, hands on her own breasts. Jimmy tries to look away but he can already feel that something is horribly wrong with this picture.

It takes both him and the girl until she's got her hands tied to the headboard to realise what exactly is going on, because that's when the other man appears. The girl begins to look nervous. Jimmy can see her lips move and imagines that she's saying she didn't sign up for this, wasn't here for a tag team or threesome. Jimmy starts to feel nervous for her, starts beginning to think that he's about to witness a murder.

But he soon discovers that he's wrong as the brothers play with the girl, using their bodies to bring her to the absolute height of pleasure until Jimmy can hear her moans even through the muffling latex. Jimmy tries not to watch, tries to close his eyes, to look away. He manages it only for a few moments at a time before he can't help but look back. Like staring at a train wreck. Like slowing down past an accident on the side of the road to see if anyone is hurt. He can't help but watch.

By the time the girl is dressed again and ready to leave, Jimmy is crying. The girl coos to him and leans down to press an unfelt kiss to his latex-covered cheek before she disappears.

The second torture, Dean Winchester tells him. Is having to watch.


	2. Chapter 2

The third 'torture' comes unexpected when Jimmy wakes up to find himself dressed in a t-shirt two sizes too big for him and a pair of plain boxers. He's sitting in a chair at what looks like a tiny kitchen table, his ankles bound to the chair's front legs, his wrists tied up behind his back. He feels tired and frail after weeks of deprivation, large circles under his eyes. He can't see the difference, but he's been feeling it and he knows that he's lost a lot of weight.

It takes a while to register that the Winchesters are sitting at the table with him, and he notices the food only when his mouth starts watering. Bacon and eggs smell like the most delicious thing in the world.

"Welcome to the world of the living, angelface," Dean greets him with a smile.

Jimmy stares at him, knowing that his words would only be ignored if he tried to speak. A plate of food, already cut up into bite-sized pieces, is placed in front of him. Dry toast and plain eggs. The sight of it makes Jimmy swallow, longing for the taste of anything that isn't just plain oatmeal or water.

"My brother thinks you're getting too skinny," Sam tells him, and Jimmy turns his gaze towards the larger man. "We'll start feeding you properly," he adds, pointing a fork at Jimmy in warning. "But you can't scream. If you scream, I shove my fork down your throat and rip your tonsils out."

Jimmy fully believes that Sam Winchester is capable of such a feat. Eyes wide, he nods jerkily, not daring to speak in case he says something to upset either man.

"Shut up, Sam." Dean says it like he's used to saying it at least three times a day, like it's ritual rather than the insult it sounds like. "You're so fucking pissy this morning. Did someone crap in your cheerios?"

"You made breakfast, Dean. You tell me."

"Eat your goddamn bacon."

The scene is so domestic that it's shocking. Jimmy stares down at the table, not quite getting it. It has to be some kind of trick. Some sort of mindfuck. A fork with a piece of toast speared on the end presses against his chapped and bitten lips. Startled, Jimmy follows the fork up to the arm holding it, and further to a pair of exasperated green eyes.

"Eat the goddamn fucking toast," Dean says, practically forcing the food into Jimmy's mouth.

"This was your idea, genius," Sam reminds his brother, obviously less than impressed.

Jimmy slowly chews the warm, crunchy toast, eyes sinking closed at the taste. It's plain, but it feels like a feast. He feels full after just half a slice and a few mouthfuls of eggs. He shakes his head when the fork is raised again, voice coming out in a soft croak. "No... can't..."  
He can only manage two small gulps of orange juice before he feels sick, choking on the third as the juice spills, dripping down onto his shirt.

"Easy, angelface. Nobody's forcing you..."

The statement is so ridiculous that Jimmy can't help but laugh. He misses the smirk that Dean sends his brother over the table.

* * *

He's only tied up now, not gagged or forced into the horrible latex suit. Jimmy observes the world around him with a bland curiosity. He doesn't have the energy for anything else. All he can do is sit and listen and watch as the brothers pal around in the motel room, talking about digging up graves and ritual sacrifice like they're sports. He eats when the Winchesters eat, plain foods compared to their greasy takeout or hearty steaks.

He discovers that if he speaks quietly, if he avoids asking them to let him go, avoids asking where they are or what's going on, that he won t receive a smack in the mouth and the instruction to shut up. They stay in the motel for three days before the brothers pack up - shoving dirty clothes into duffle bags with books and knives and guns - talking about heading north and finding some fun. Sam's eyes flash yellow as the brothers grin at each other, and Jimmy begins to wonder if it's not just a trick of the light.

Then he finds himself being partially untied and marched into the bathroom where Dean shaves his face for him and Jimmy is then manhandled into a pair of too-big jeans.

"You look so pretty in my clothes, angelface," Dean says, brushing his thumb against Jimmy's freshly-shaven cheek. Fingertips pass gently over cracked lips and Jimmy remembers the other man's words from an age ago, when he was first bundled into the back seat of a car.

"I won t beg," Jimmy says softly, staring Dean straight in the eyes. It's meant as an act of defiance, but Dean just chuckles and leans in to press a shockingly chaste kiss to his lips.

"You'll beg, angelface. You'll look so pretty doing it."

Jimmy resolves to never, ever beg Dean Winchester for anything.

* * *

[**Now**]

The sunrise has just begun to peek over the horizon as Dean drives his beloved black beauty fast down the highway. They'd stopped briefly to change her plates again just before four in the morning, which was the only change Dean would ever agree to giving her. He taps his fingers against the steering wheel, humming along to Steppenwolf on the radio.

In the back Sam has his long legs stretched out as much as he can across the seats, head tilted back against the window, the gold tones long faded from his eyes. He looks sated, his hunger for violence satisfied by the impromptu jail break.

Cas sits in the passenger seat in the front, eyes cold and half lidded as he contemplates the road ahead. He looks at Dean, who catches him staring after a few minutes and gives him a wicked sort of smile.

"Where do you want to go, boys?" Dean asks, teeth flashing in the dim morning light. "We've got a full tank of gas and a glove box full of fake IDs. The world's our fucking oyster."

"Head south, Dean," Sam says from the back, eyes closed.

"Cas?"

"South is perfectly fine."

Blue eyes meet green, communicating something unfathomable. Sam opens his eyes just in time to see Cas sinking down out of sight. He hears the sound of a zip opening and smirks to himself. "If you crash the car," he tells Dean, "I swear I'll hurt you."

"If you're so concerned," Dean says, taking his hands from the wheel and crossing them behind his head. "You drive."

"Keep your hands on the fucking wheel, Dean."

Dean catches them just before the car slides off the road, chuckling at Sam in the rearview mirror. He keeps one hand on the wheel this time, the other sliding down to touch the back of Cas' head. Sam can hear the wet suckling noises from the backseat but he doesn't care. He can't feel jealous about this. Maybe he had at first, but now it was just some new facet to their lives. Dean had indulged his every want when they were growing up, it seemed fair that Sam should indulge some of his now that they were grown.

"Better, Dean," Sam says, closing his eyes again and relaxing.

* * *

[**Past**]

He's in the back seat of a black 1967 Chevy impala, hands tied only as a formality because both brothers are carrying guns and specifically stopped that morning to prove exactly how good at shooting they were. Jimmy was now certain that even if he were untied and back to his original physical fitness he never would have had a chance of getting away.  
He's staring blankly out the window, watching the scenery go past when a thought hits him hard enough to make his stomach lurch. He voices the thought before stopping to think. "Did you kill my family?"

"What?" Dean asks, glancing at him in the rearview. "What the fuck kind of question is that?"

"You kill people," Jimmy replies, looking at the green eyes in the mirror. "I just want to know if you killed my family."

Sam shakes his head and turns around to look at Jimmy, his baby-faced smile charming enough to coax birds from the trees. "We didn't touch your family," he tells Jimmy sweetly. "We waited for you at your office and took you. We didn't even look at your wife or kid twice."

"They probably think you're dead," Dean adds. "But we didn't kill them. What's the point, right? You're the one we wanted, so you're the one we took. Why get needlessly involved in messy situations?"

Sam grins at Dean and it's something feral. He hits his brother's arm. "You're so full of shit, Dean."

"Me? Fuck you, Sammy. You're the demonic psycho in the family, not me."

"No, you're just you're average, garden variety psycho," Sam teases.

"You fucking love it. Seriously though," Dean says, looking at Jimmy again. "We didn't do anything to your family, angelface."

"But if you piss us off," Sam says, stretching his arms out along the back of the front seat. "Then we might just strip their bones bare."

"Forget your family," Dean advises, his smile dangerous and sensual at the same time. "You're ours now, our little angelface."

Jimmy slumps down in the backseat, staring at his knees. He thinks he might want to pray, but he just can't find the words and it doesn't feel right to try to talk to a God who has obviously abandoned him. He feels young and alone, though he figures he has to be at least a few years older than the eldest brother. He can't quite figure out why he feels so young and they seem so much older.

He figures it out at the next gas station.

The station is tiny, manned by a single middle aged woman who greets the Winchesters as they get out of the car. Jimmy doesn't bother to hide his bound hands and isn't surprised when she doesn't even notice, too busy eyeing the handsome duo who flit around her and the car like it s a dance. Jimmy watches the steps carefully, sees how Sam distracts her first while Dean pumps the car full of gas, and how flawlessly Dean falls into the role as Sam disappears into the tiny general store. Sam appears again and takes over, cash from the register weighing down his jacket even as he smiles and thanks the woman for the use of her bathroom.

Sam slides into the car as Dean appears again, a bottle of whiskey in one hand and a gun in the other. He shoots the woman in the head without a second glance, careful only in the sense that he makes certain to aim in a way that the spray of blood and brains won t taint his beautiful car. Jimmy flinches, but at the same time he can't help but admire the way it had all gone so seamlessly. He realises what it is then and presses his lips together stubbornly, clenching his hands into fists.

"Christ," Dean says, sliding into the driver's seat and handing the bottle of whiskey to Sam. "We haven't pulled that one in a while."

"We can only do it once every few thousand miles, Dean," Sam replies, screwing the cap off the bottle. He pauses and gulps liquid from the bottle before continuing; "Otherwise we'd be leaving an obvious trail of bodies right up to our front door."

"I know," Dean replies, grabbing the bottle and downing a healthy amount before passing it back. "I was the one who taught you to cover your tracks. Remember that, Sam? Remember how I taught you almost every single damn thing you know? Fuck, you'd think I was the younger brother with the way you talk, Sammy. I know we can't do it all the time, I was just saying that it had been a while."

"Don't get your panties in a knot," Sam says.

"Don't bait me, bitch."

"Jerk."

"How much did you get from the till?"

"Enough to buy a nice two week stay at our next new home," Sam replies, pulling the wad of cash from his jacket and thumbing through the bills. "Enough to buy your little backseat angel some clothes that fit."

"I don't require new clothes," Jimmy spoke up, sullen and quiet, unsettled by the idea that bloody money could be used to benefit him in any way.

"You can't wear Dean's cast offs forever."

Jimmy didn't want to feel touched to think that the yellow-eyed brother was thinking about his wellbeing. He clammed up again, silent as he contemplated this new turn of events. He knew the name for the defence mechanism his brain seemed keen on employing, he just didn't want to admit that it was possible that he might be feeling sympathetic towards his kidnappers at all.

Two hours later Jimmy sits silently in the back seat in the parking lot of a motel while Dean checks in and Sam unloads their bags. He knows they'll come back for him eventually, ten minutes at the most, but he reaches for the door handle anyway. It's not locked, and Jimmy manages to open it even with his hands tied together. He steps out into the parking lot, barefoot, too-large jeans barely clinging to his hips, and looks for the open door that Sam had disappeared into.

He's half way across the parking lot when Sam appears in the doorway, looking at him as if he's suddenly grown two extra heads and a tail to boot. Jimmy stares back, frozen half way between car and door, then finally his feet start moving again and he walks up to Sam as calmly as he can manage. Jimmy cocks his head to the side expectantly when the larger man doesn't immediately move out of the way.

"Full of surprises," Sam mutters, stepping aside to let Jimmy into the motel room. "I'm going to get the rest of the gear," he says, and walks straight outside without even closing the door. There are no threats, no reminders that the Winchesters have guns and Jimmy is barefoot and unlikely to get very far. Blue eyes stare out the open door briefly before taking in the motel room itself. Jimmy begins to think that perhaps the only way to get out of Hell is to throw yourself headfirst into the pit.

When he wakes up the next morning his hands are untied. There's a thick line of bruising around his wrists and small scabs where the chafing had proved too much for his skin. It feels strange to be able to move his arms independently and he rubs a hand over his face before sitting up and looking around.

The first thing he sees are the brothers, both of them sitting on the bed next to his, both of them cleaning or sharpening knives.

"You're coming along nicely, angelface."

Jimmy isn't so sure that's actually a compliment, but he feels better about it when breakfast comes and he's able to butter his own toast without so much as a sideways glance when he picks up the knife. It's absurd to feel good about being trusted by wanted killers.

He knows exactly who they are now, after watching them laugh over news reports and mock their own mug shots on America's Most Wanted. He knows they've been arrested at least twice, and that once was before both brothers were eighteen. He knows their reputation, and he thinks he sees the truth of it every time Sam's eyes suddenly seem yellow or they turn up bruised and bloody and talking about demons.

Jimmy sits down at the table in the kitchenette, watching the Winchesters plan their next move, and he thinks that maybe that's why God has abandoned the world.

"Demons," he says that night, after a long, boring day indoors while the brothers take turns going out and looking through the town. He doesn't need to finish the question, simply falling silent as the brothers look at each other, exchanging small smirks.

"It's all true," Sam says. "Every bad dream you ever had, every nightmare creature you ever thought didn't exist. Demons are real, and every so often we like to go out and kill a bunch to keep our skills sharp."

"Demons fight harder than humans," Dean explains, like this is something obvious, "they're harder to kill. Sammy here has a bit of demon in him and boy, they really don't like that. What do they call you, Sam?"

"Half-breed," Sam provides, making the name sound more like a title than a derogatory term.

"They don t' like the half-breed and his human brother," Dean finishes, smirking at their blue-eyed captive.

Jimmy suspects that there might be more to it than that but he doesn't dare ask. He keeps silent, like always, and looks away when Dean crosses the room to sit beside him.

"Don't worry, angelface," Dean says, touching Jimmy's cheek with calloused fingers. "We've never met a threat, demon or not, that we couldn't kill." Lips touch his cheek, too warm against his skin. Jimmy keeps looking away, determined not to react and hating the way the touch makes him feel just a little better than before.


	3. Chapter 3

[**Now**]

It's a gas station, remote, oddly familiar. Cas parks in front of the gas pump and gets out of the car, checking his back pocket to make sure that his razor is still tucked where it ought to be. Sam and Dean are asleep in the back seat, piled together in a heap of denim and cotton-clad limbs because it's still too cold to sleep comfortably in the car even with the heater going.

The gas pump takes a while to start and Cas leans against the side of the car as he waits, breath coming out in a fog. He walks into the store, the bell waking the dozing clerk. When he walks back out again there's blood on the sleeve of his jacket. He tucks his razor away again, out of sight, out of mind, and sits the six pack of beer that he'd taken from the cooler on the passenger seat beside him.

He suspects that he'll cop some shit for killing the clerk, but he really doesn't care. Dean had promised him bloody sunsets, but impatience had crept in too quickly when the clerk told him that he had the wrong change. He thinks that the brothers will understand, but steels himself for the possibility of a fight, cool blue eyes gazing at the sleeping Winchesters in the rearview.

The eyes soften for a moment, then harden when the gaze turns back to the road. To anyone not versed in reading him, Castiel's expression had not changed one iota since first getting out of the car.

* * *

[**Past**]

Sam puts the knife in his hand and shoves him towards the bag of fresh groceries on the counter. Jimmy had made the mistake of making a face at the greasy burgers Dean had brought back for lunch and had been stupid enough to admit aloud that he used to cook for Amelia and his daughter. The brothers had exchanged looks that met half way somewhere between annoyance and amusement. The next thing Jimmy knew Sam was out the door. He had come back not half an hour later carting a paper bag full of groceries in one arm.

Jimmy stared at the knife in his hand as if he couldn't remember what to do with it.

"It cuts things," Sam tells him, as helpfully as sarcasm could make it, and then he leaves Jimmy alone in the kitchenette with the bag of groceries.

Jimmy pulls out each item and examines them all one by one, frowning slightly as he looks over what sort of things Sam has bought. He identifies the ingredients for several potential meals and, after a brief hesitation that sees him contemplating sinking the knife into Sam's flesh, he begins to chop up vegetables for a light salad.

The fantasies come back as he slices through the plastic wrapping on a polystyrene rack of steaks. For brief moments he sees the Winchesters with pieces carved from their flesh, their blood on his hands. He shakes the images away and trims the fat from the meat. Later as it cooks he tries not to imagine if human flesh would smell like steak as it burned.

The thoughts creep up on him in the most innocuous of moments. He thinks about killing the Winchesters and running away, running back home to his wife and daughter. Then he thinks about making the Winchesters pay for what they've made him go through so far, careful to keep his face blank so they can't see what he's thinking when he stares out the window. He thinks about it in odd moments, brushing his teeth, watching clothes spin in the dryer, sitting at the breakfast table and staring at his spoon.

He doesn't realise how obvious it must be until one midnight in the next motel over. Jimmy jumps a little as the lamp next to his bed flicks on. The mattress dips with Dean's weight as the other man crawls up onto the bed, hunting knife held in his left hand. Without saying a word he straddles Jimmy's hips, raises the knife, and cuts three shallow lines into his right forearm. The blood wells and drips onto the motel sheets. Jimmy's eyes are wide as he looks past the blood to the sober, determined face above his.

Dean tucks the knife into the back of his waistband and touches his fingers to the cuts. He reaches out and smears the blood against Jimmy's lips, pushing fingertips into his mouth before Jimmy can react with anything other than shock. Then Dean's hands are on either side of his head, green eyes flashing as he comes in close to murmur against Jimmy's blood-stained lips;

"You don't know whether you want to fuck me or kill me, do you, angelface?" Dean's tongue flicks out and licks his lower lip. "Between you and me," he continues, "I'd prefer the fucking."

The lamp flicks off. Jimmy holds his breath until he feels Dean's weight shift off him, off the bed, and hears his footsteps fading. Nobody says a word about it in the morning. Not about the blood on the sheets or the bandage suddenly covering part of Dean's right arm. But somehow sex has made it into the blood fantasies, and Jimmy is pretty sure that's exactly what Dean was going for.

* * *

The next town over the brothers find a partially furnished cottage and sign a six month lease at a rental agency. Jimmy is confused until he realises that they can't possibly spend their entire lives on the road and watches as they flip through a series of false identities on the kitchen table, picking the ones they think will best fit in. Dean becomes Harry and Sam becomes Thomas. Jimmy doesn't get a new name, has never even told them what his name actually is.

Two days later both Winchesters have jobs, normal, average day jobs, and Jimmy is left alone in the cottage. They don't tie him up. They don't try to lock the doors from the outside. There's a phone within reach and Sam's laptop left behind every day, plenty of ways to call out for help or to let people know where he is. Somehow Jimmy still feels trapped and he prowls the tiny house like a caged animal, never quite brave enough to step outside or dial the number he wants to when he picks up the phone. He cleans the house, keeps it obsessively neat, and when that starts to bore him he begins doing push ups and sit ups to regain the build he'd had before.

At first it exhausts him, leaving him tired and dull-eyed when the Winchesters come home. After a week he begins to notice a difference in how he moves and feels. A month and he's still too skinny but has toned his muscles back to how he thinks they might have been before. He catches appreciative glances from dark green eyes and stubbornly ignores them, imagining himself pushing needles through the dilating pupils.

A pile of clothes appears on the single bed that Jimmy had claimed has his own, plain jeans and shirts in the same size he used to be, the same size he was slowly filling out to again with regular meals and exercise. He waits until the brothers are at work before stripping out of Dean's cast-offs and throwing the too-big jeans and shirt in the trash.

Being dressed in pants that weren't constantly slipping down and threatening to leave him in nothing but ill-fitting shirt and underwear made him feel more like a person. He felt less on edge, calmer, and stopped biting the skin from his lips - a habit he hadn't even noticed had formed until he didn't need to anymore.

Jimmy started going for walks during the day, borrowing shoes without asking and walking for a half hour or an hour in one direction before walking right back as if he had never been gone. He questions why he doesn't just make a break for it. He wonders why he keeps returning, why he never tries to call his wife. Eventually he decides it's because the brothers are likely to kill her if he tries to go back, just to prove that they can get to him. It doesn't seem entirely correct, but it unsettles him less than any of the other hypotheses.

* * *

He almost loses it during the third month of solid domesticity.

The brothers went bar-hopping, bored and looking for entertainment, leaving Jimmy alone with nothing but late night TV and a bottle of vintage rum that he's pretty sure they wouldn't want him touching. He has a few shots anyway, and puts the bottle back exactly where it had been before, feeling tipsy and pleasantly numb. It's the first time he's had more than a glass of wine at a time in years.

He's still on the couch, watching a terrible horror movie from the early 90s when the front door opens and several people stumble in, drunk and rowdy. Jimmy lurches upright on the couch but doesn't stand, eyes wide as he identifies the Winchester brothers, each young man with a pretty and very drunk woman on his arm. Nobody even looks at him even as they pass by right in front of the TV on the way to the brothers' separate rooms.

Jimmy just sits there, feeling as if he's back in the (_goddamn motherfucking can't take it anymore_!) suit again.

The noises start soon after, feminine giggles interspersed with deeper murmurs that might be groans. Jimmy remembers that he can move when he hears a female voice shouting, obviously pretending to be a porn star as she yells for whichever Winchester she's with to do it harder, faster, deeper.

He's on his feet before he recognises the sudden shift in perception, TV smashed and smoking on the floor. There's a lot of breakable stuff in the living room, he realises distantly, watching himself tear the place apart. Blood is streaking his knuckles by the time rough hands grip him from behind and an unbearable weight forces him to the ground.

He sees the girls standing in the hall, sheets and half-unbuttoned clothing clutched tight to their bodies as they stare at him. It's only much later, nursing a black eye and a bloody lip alongside the self-inflicted grazes on his hands that Jimmy remembers the unfamiliar expression that his face had been arranged into. He thinks then that he knows why the girls looked so scared. He leans against the shower wall, turning his face into the spray and trying to smooth an emotionless mask over his features.

The door to the tiny bathroom opens suddenly, the doorknob taking a chip out of the wall from the force. Jimmy pretends that he hadn't just jumped a little and turns his face towards the rest of the room. There's no door or shower curtain to hide him from the combined force of two sets of eyes - one set green, one set flashing between yellow and brown depending on the angle of light.

"What in the name of fuck were you thinking?" Dean demands.

Jimmy takes a breath before he answers, keeping his voice as even as he knows how. "I don't know."

"Do you know how much damage that was, how much all of that is going to cost us? We put a goddamned bond on this place!"

Silence doesn't seem to be the right answer.

"I think your little angel has a temper," Sam says, the anger in his voice cold compared to Dean's hot-tempered ranting.

"Fuck his temper!" Dean replies hotly. He steps forward and reaches into the shower to turn off the taps, leaving Jimmy standing there with water rapidly cooling against his skin. "You're on thin ice, angelface," Dean tells him, staring Jimmy right in the face. Something in the gaze is off. There's anger, Jimmy recognises that, but there's also something else.

It takes him a moment, but then Jimmy is speaking, reassured to the point of perfect calmness."No I'm not."

Green eyes flash and for a second Jimmy thinks he might have interpreted wrong. But then Sam starts laughing and Dean throws a quick glare over his shoulder. "God fuck you both," he mutters. The lines of anger drain from his body. Dean shoves a towel into Jimmy's chest, a look closer to approval in his eyes now. "Just get dressed. We need a new TV."

"I have a black eye."

Dean rolls his eyes while Sam smirks in the background. "We're not going shopping, you idiot. It's the middle of the night."

Jimmy lets himself get taken along for the break-and-enter, feeling oddly philosophical as he watches Dean thumb through the house's collection of DVDs while Sam disentangles the power cord from a thousand other attachments. He recalls with dim resignation that stealing is a sin, but the thought is soon drowned out by the frank reminder that God has obviously decided that his life isn't worth much in the grand scheme of things.

God can't have much sway, he thinks as he follows the Winchesters back to their car, with people like them around and thriving. That he's begun to include himself in that equation is less troubling than he thinks it should be.

* * *

He stopped smiling months ago, hasn't smiled since he waved his coworkers goodnight. He stops glaring when he discovers it's just as effective to respond with nothing but a stare. His face rearranges itself into a blank slate, replacing expressions with small shifts of eyebrows or the corners of his mouth. It's easy, like slipping an invisible mask over his face. He's been going out more, been introduced at Sam's work at the local diner as a cousin, though even there his name isn't used. When people ask he evades the question, disarming them with a query or a slow stare that makes them think he might not be quite all there.

Dean laughs when he hears about that. Laughs and looks into Jimmy's eyes and says that they have to be dumb to miss the look of contempt in his blue eyes. Contempt? Jimmy is surprised momentarily before he makes sense of the emotion. Dean touches his emotionless face and says he looks even prettier with every little emotion concentrated in his eyes.

Jimmy gets it then, the contempt. He thinks the people who call him slow are exceptionally stupid. They can't read the currents in his eyes like the Winchesters can.

He lets Dean kiss him, lets the younger man thread fingers through his hair - long enough now to be in desperate need of cutting - and touch his tongue against his lips. But he doesn't beg, would never, ever beg, and he thinks he sees a glimmer of respect in Dean's hot and cold green eyes.

In the cold loneliness of his single bed, Jimmy silently admits that he's thinking about giving in. He imagines his fingers pressing needles into the eyes of the girls who look at Dean, he imagines a bullet ripping through their skulls and splattering brains against the pavement. Jimmy wonders briefly what exactly is wrong with him, giving up on that trail of thought when it begins to lead him down a road he's not sure he's willing to take. It's a road that leads straight to Hell, but he resides there already and sees no problem with clinging to the precipice for as long as he can manage.

* * *

[**Now**]

"What the fuck were you thinking?" Dean demands, hand tight around Castiel's wrist, eyes zeroed in on the dried blood; Blood that obviously doesn't belong to the other man.

"The clerk annoyed me."

"Cas, Dean's right," Sam speaks up, back in what - to Cas - is his most unsettling persona, the one with the sincere brown eyes and kind smiles. It's rarer than devious eyes and smirks, but when it happens it never fails to unsettle him. "We're on the run. We can't go killing everyone who annoys us."

Cas replies with a look. Sam, who had happily butchered his way through an entire police station just a couple of days ago, has the grace to look at least a bit sheepish. "I left no fingerprints," he says, talking to Dean rather than face the puppyish look on Sam's face. "There were no security cameras."

He expects the punch to the mouth and doesn't move, only flinches a little at the pain. Cas takes the admonishment as it's meant, shutting up and letting the brothers decide whether or not it's worth a physical reprimand. He could never match up to Sam's raw power and imposing size, but these days Cas could give Dean a run for his money before the younger man could get him beat.

The fight never comes. Castiel touches his straight razor, touches Dean, then slides calmly away to make coffee in the tiny kitchenette of the run down roadhouse they're holed up in for the night.

The very old TV flicks on in time to catch the tail end of the ten o'clock news. Cas frowns as he hears a familiar name, one he'd all but forgotten, and turns to see both brothers staring at him in incredulity.

"Dude," Dean says, "James Novak? '_Jimmy_' Novak? That's your real name?"

"It's so... normal," Sam adds, studying Cas as if he's some kind of very rare and unusual specimen.

"I am not Jimmy Novak," Cas says.

The Winchesters can't argue with that.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes**: This is the last chapter of the first installment. If you actually liked it (majority vote says 'no'?) there will be a second installment appearing soonish. Possibly a third, or just the few random non-linear snippets my darling proofreader inspired.

Please review? I get all paranoid when not even one person tells me I did moderately unbad.

* * *

[**Past**]

They pack up at the end of the lease, bundling everything important to them into the black beauty, weapons hidden in a special compartment in the boot. Lately Jimmy has found himself drawn to the knives, admiring the shine of them, the way the long blades glinted in the light. He stares at kitchen knives sometimes as he holds them, paused half way through chopping vegetables or trimming fat from meat. He always puts them down before he can think too deeply about what staring at knives might mean.

He falls asleep in the back seat of the car, waking up at a rest stop hours down the track as Dean slides into the back seat beside him. Neither of them say anything, but when Sam starts driving Jimmy finds his head growing foggy with sleep again and lets himself drift off with his head cushioned on Dean's shoulder. The next time he wakes up his head is in Dean's lap and there are fingers stroking absently through his hair. He reaches up to touch Dean's thigh lightly, brushing the denim of his jeans with the tips of his fingers. The hand in his hair stills briefly, then resumes its petting.

"I want a knife," Jimmy says, interrupting the brothers' quiet conversation.

"A knife?" Sam repeats, a small, sincere frown making his brow crinkle.

"What kind of knife, angelface?" Dean asks, mixing wariness with indulgence.

"Something I can carry with me."

"Not planning on slitting our throats in our sleep?" Dean prompts, knowing as well as both of the other men in the car that if Jimmy was going to do anything of the sort he would have done it by now. He was not asking permission to commit murder.

"We'll find you a knife," Sam says, raising his eyebrows at Dean through the rearview mirror.

"You can have dad's old blade," Dean says, just a beat behind his brother. "The old straight razor."

Jimmy feels like there's something significant to that, but neither of the Winchesters seem keen on telling him what exactly that is. So he keeps silent and touches Dean's leg again, letting his fingers rest against the denim.

He lets the green-eyed murderer kiss him again that night, parting his lips a little to let Dean taste his mouth. Dean's tongue tastes like strong black coffee. A cold hard weight is pressed into Jimmy's hand. He knows, without needing to look, that it's the blade that he was promised.

"You're not going to beg me, are you?" Dean asks, murmuring the question against Jimmy's lips. "You're different. You're not going to give in."

"No," Jimmy whispers, meaning yes.

He stays stoic as Dean presses against him, thinks about his wife and feels sick with Dean's next, forceful kiss. Dean starts to pull away but Jimmy's hands grab hold of his shirt, pulling him back again and tangling their mouths together. The thought of Amelia fades under fresh assault from Dean's tongue but the feeling of sickness remains until their mouths finally pull apart again, both men panting.

"Fucking tease," Dean whispers. "Fucking angel. Face like a goddamn angel..."

"I'm not ready," Jimmy says, voice bland because he's known for quite some time exactly why the brothers kidnapped him. He knows it was all Dean's idea. He suspects he was supposed to have been gone already, that somewhere along the line the plan must have changed. He knows and he's starting to not care about the things holding him back.

"I'm a patient sonofabitch when I want to be," Dean says simply. He gives Jimmy one final kiss before leaving him alone with the razor and his own thoughts.

In the morning Sam's eyes give him a warning flash of yellow. Jimmy nods to the younger brother, silently giving his agreeance. He still remembers that conversation they had over the top of his head. Dean is Sam's first.

* * *

[**Now**]

The sharp edge of the razor drags slowly over his skin, drawing a thin red line down over his collarbone that wells with blood. Cas tips his head back, raising the blade from his skin and looking at the red staining the blade while a tongue traces over the cut, spreading blood and spit over his chest. Huge hands smooth down his torso, stopping to unbuckle his belt and undo the fly of his jeans. Another pair of hands touches his hair, his face, his neck, tilting his chin further back so his mouth can be claimed in a slow kiss.

Sam's hands pull on Castiel's jeans, tugging them down and finally tossing them aside. Cas lets his thighs spread, and press the razor into his inner thigh, a cut just deep enough to drip blood. He leans back against Dean and the elder brother supports his weight while Sam ducks down to suck on the cut on his thigh.

Sam's hand covers his, pulling the razor down again and Castiel squirms when it touches a sensitive spot close to his hip, breathing hard.

"Do it, Sammy. You'll love the noise he makes." The encouragement is breathy and gruff, emphasised by hands that stroke down Castiel's stomach.

Sam presses the blade down. "Repaid in full," he murmurs against Castiel's hip, slicking his fingers in KY.

* * *

[**Past**]

The very first time he's handed the keys to the impala is also the first time he sees a real demon. They were at a truck stop when it happened, when Sam caught sight of something and stiffened in a way that made Dean automatically reach for the pistol tucked into the back of his jeans. Jimmy follows their line of sight to an average looking man in washed-out jeans and a flannel shirt. He watches as the man's eyes connect with Sam's, catches a flash of yellow from the corner of his eye and knows that something about that man has just managed to put Sam Winchester into a really bad mood.

The man walks out of the truck stop and Sam gets up to follow, Dean half a step behind him. Jimmy follows at a distance, curiosity winning out over common sense. He walks into the mouth of the alleyway in time to catch the fight. There are three men and only two Winchesters, but the brothers are holding their own with knives and fists.

Jimmy hears the demons talking, calling Sam the 'Winchester Half-breed'. They're all too busy to notice him watching. Only afterwards, when two of the hosts are dead and the third is a bloody wreck on the pavement, do the brothers notice him standing there. Sam's eyes are yellow, his face is bloody. Dean is in a similar condition, a split in his eyebrow dripping blood down his face.

Jimmy takes the keys to the impala wordlessly and sits in the driver's seat for the first time. It occurs to him that this now makes him their getaway driver. "Possession?" he asks, glancing at the brothers in the rearview.

He doesn't need an answer. He knows what he saw. He drives until a hand taps his shoulder, then pulls over and lets Dean take over, sliding over into the passenger seat. He thinks it's oddly poetic in a way. The Winchesters are killers themselves, but scorned by demons who have surely done worse.

Jimmy looks out the window and wonders if the world has always been so fucked up.

* * *

He's ready sooner than he thinks he will be. He recognises the sudden shift when it happens. He's looking in the mirror, going through the morning ritual of shaving his face when suddenly he looks himself in the eyes through the mirror. The difference captures him immediately. The blue is cold and indifferent, eerie in an impassive face. He thinks to himself 'I'm not Jimmy', and remembers that nobody has called him that in almost a year. For almost a year he's been 'angel' or 'angelface'. He wonders if he'd still answer to his own name if he heard it aloud.

The answer is no. He wouldn't. The imagined scenario didn't seem right. It would require forgetting everything that he'd experienced, forgetting his willing compliance, his silent shadowing. He could have left at any point he wanted to, he realises, any point after they started leaving him on his own without rope to keep him hobbled. He could have called, could have emailed, could have slit his wrists and left the brothers a cold, inconvenient surprise. He didn't. He's not that man anymore.

He finishes scraping the bristles from his face with a thoughtful air. He would like a name. It seems unnecessarily complicated for Sam and Dean to constantly keep avoiding the question when strangers ask who he is. He doesn't hate the pet names, but introducing himself with an endearment is just plain ridiculous.

He thinks about it all day, musing on all the names he's heard, toying with the idea of naming himself after something or someone, maybe from a book.

"You're thinking too hard," Dean tells him that night, when they're standing outside the laundromat waiting for a load of washing.

"It's important," he replies simply. He lets Dean touch his face and run his thumb over his bottom lip.

"Tell me what you're thinking about. Tell me what's so important."

"No."

"Come on, angelface. What's got you so caught up?"

The inspiration is like lightning. His eyes light up with a smile that doesn't reach the rest of his face. The irony would be brilliant, he thinks. Too funny, too perfect. Now he only has to pick the right one. He leans forward and kisses Dean of his own accord for the first time, biting the other man's lower lip. "You think too much," he tells Dean.

Dean pushes him against the wall, thigh shoved between his legs, hands on his hips pulling him closer. He does more than just let it happen. He rolls his hips forward, slides an arm around Dean's waist and grabs his jacket collar with the other. The kisses are hard, with bitten lips and duelling tongues. He's breathless by the end, tastes copper on his tongue.

"Cocktease," Dean says when he's pushed away.

He doesn't tell Dean that he wants a name for the other man to use before he'll agree to anything more.

* * *

He decides on a Thursday, fitting in that it's actually the sole factor in his decision. The other factor is a mess on the floor of blood and bones, blood that stains his jeans, his shirt, and the blade of his straight razor. A shiny badge is pinned to the torso.

The Winchesters watch him where he's fallen to his knees. They're not bloody like he is, but the blade of Sam's knife shines red and Dean is still holding the sawn-off shotgun.

"Angelface," Dean says, shocked and impressed and frankly a little turned on. "Are you ok?"

He looks up at the brothers, away from the body he'd just consigned to heaven, and he speaks in a calm, cold monotone. "My name is Castiel."

He blacks out then, not physically, but there's a gap in his memory between the revelation of his new name and suddenly finding himself in the back of the impala, blood dry on his hands. If he strains really hard he can recall strong hands dragging him to his feet, maybe saying the words; 'He would have called for backup'.

Castiel knows he had been standing in the mouth of the alley by the car, watching silently as the brothers cornered the couple they'd pegged as an easy steal. Kill the man, let the woman get away, less her diamond earrings and her feeling of being safe ever again. Sam had been stripping the woman of her jewellery when the cop had come along. Beat cop, unfathomably alone. He had his short-wave in hand when Castiel had stepped in, straight razor in hand, body moving of its own accord. He'd felt a sensation similar to that time, long ago, when he'd trashed the living room of a cottage. It was all just smash, break, and rip. The cop hadn't even had time to reach for his baton.

The woman had scrambled away, a mess of dirt and her date's blood. Castiel remembers choosing his name.

He looks up at the brothers in the front seat, sees them both watching him - Dean's eyes in the mirror, Sam's body turned so he can watch him from the passenger seat.

"You are impressed," Castiel says, reading the currents in the brother's body language and in Dean's eyes.

"You're certainly full of surprises," Sam answers first, shooting a glance at Dean that Castiel finds hard to interpret.

"Surprised the hell out of us both," Dean says then, smiling over his shoulder before turning back to the road. "You hacked that guy to bits. Tiny little bits."

"That is exaggeration."

Silence descends. Castiel notices that he's still holding the razor and polishes it free of blood before tucking it into the pocket of his newly stained jeans.

"So..." Dean says again, when they're alone in the nameless motel, Sam gone out to retrieve supplies and food. "Castiel, huh? Got a last name to go with that?"

"No." He likes it that way.

Dean's hand touches his face. "Mind if I call you 'Cas'?"

He doesn't have to answer. Dean sees it in his eyes. By the time Sam returns blood-stained clothing is crumpled on the floor. Cas lies in the circle of Dean's arms, bruises from bites and rough fingers peppering his body. He doesn't care about that, feels strangely content even as Sam's eyebrows raise.

"Dude, shut up," Dean says, pulling a blanket higher over their bodies.

* * *

[**Now**]

Cas never plans with them. He doesn't enjoy that part, doesn't participate in the discussions about who and where and how. He leaves it up to the brothers Winchester and sits back to take care of the domestic chores that neither of them ever seem to have learned. He takes the guard more often than not, often enough to have earned him the joking title of 'guardian angel' when he takes down bystanders who wandered past at inopportune moments before they can raise the alarm.

When, and if, he gives in to violence without prompting it's always quick and efficient, removing the irritation without fuss.

Now that they have his fingerprints, the FBI have begun to piece together a mostly fictional account of what must have happened. Castiel's eyes fill with disgust and contempt as he watches the show's host discuss his situation with psychological experts.

They're watching because the TV guide said it was a series of 'documentaries' on serial killers and the Winchesters are vain enough to want to watch theirs for amusement's sakes.

The episode started by recounting the brothers' troubled childhood and ex-military father's supposed brainwashing and abuse. It ran through their MO - which made both of the brothers laugh at the number of deviant cases that obviously hadn't been linked with them yet - and showed their most recent mug shots. Sam from two years ago with puppydog eyes and innocent expression, Dean from barely a month ago, giving his best adorable joker smile.

Then they showed Castiel's picture, emotionless and bored as the host gave an almost hammer-horror narration of the FBI's discovery that the killers had a new accomplice. The host talked about Jimmy Novak's unblemished past, proper Christian upbringing and happy childhood, marrying his high school sweetheart, his job at a sales company... His sudden and unexplained disappearance.

Theories ranged from kidnapping (Dean's hand squeezed his thigh), to previous association with the brothers (the hand cupped his crotch), to undiagnosed mental problems (and rubbed), to everyone's favourite theory when a victim became a killer.

"I don't appreciate their speculation," Cas said, trapping Dean's wrist.

"I don't like what they keep calling you, angelface."

"Will you two get a room?" Sam rolls his eyes, changing the channel. "I'm starting to think I need to find myself an accomplice."

"I always said you needed to find yourself a pretty demon girl, Sam. You'd have to keep her on a short leash for a while, but I'm sure we could work it out."

Sam looks thoughtful, frowning a little as he considers the idea. "Find a body that I like," he muses, "and then find a demon to match it..."

"See? Easily done. There's got to be some demon out there with a bit of a human kink."

Castiel leans back against the couch and against the green-eyed brother. "I am not cleaning any messes or mistakes," he says, his contribution to the conversation. He doesn't care that they might kidnap someone, might put her through the same routine that he had gone through to get to this point. She would either live and become one of them, or she'd die. What did it matter, as long as he was content?

Sam stands and takes the keys to the impala, thoughtful look still on his face. "I'll be back later," he says, and disappears.

Cas lets go of Dean's wrist and lets the younger man unzip his jeans.

Four days later, Sam comes back to the motel with a Polaroid snapshot of a woman from the next town over. He places the photo right in the middle of the small kitchen table. The photo is obviously stolen from somewhere, the handwriting underneath the woman's smiling face labelling her 'Ruby'. Sam looks at his brother and says four words. "I want her, Dean."


End file.
